


After Me Comes the Flood

by Rydia (ungarmax)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungarmax/pseuds/Rydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s staring at you--no, he’s staring <i>through</i> you.  He knew, you realize.  He knew this entire time that something was amiss, that you weren’t telling the whole sacred truth.  He knew what your plans were, and that was why he had followed you this far.  This self sacrificial idiot had taken the position as your moirail to keep an eye on <i>you</i>.</p>
<p>That is what makes him worthy, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Me Comes the Flood

**Author's Note:**

> "Whatever happens, they say afterwards, it must have been Fate. People are always a little confused about this, as they are in the case of miracles. When someone is saved from certain death by a strange concatenation of circumstances, they say that’s a miracle. But of course if someone is killed by a freak chain of events : the oil just spilled there, the safety fence just broke there : that must also be a miracle. Just because its not nice doesn’t mean it’s not miraculous." 
> 
> -Terry Pratchett, _Interesting Times_

Your moirail is sleeping with his back to your chest, curled into a half ball around the arm you have thrown lazily around his waist.  You press your nose into his messy mop of hair and inhale; his scent is burned electronics, melted plastic.  Your miracle brother’s thinkpan has got a wicked engine all of its own, a near constant thrum of energy buzzing around like a colony of bifurcated bees.

You touch him, his mind, and the red and blue flee from your mental fingertips, leaving a blank whiteness.

He shifts in his sleep, and you draw back.  He’s always been sensitive, your pale brother.

The game’s gone nowhere; the Reckoning past, the universe frog not bred.  You knew it’d end up this way, your Dark Master warned you.  You got one way left to serve, one thing left on your calamitous agenda left before the end.  And it’s got all to do with your favorite brother.

You’re a little sad, if you wanted to be honest.  (You don’t.)  You didn’t exactly mean it, back then, when you asked him out.  But you’d recognized his worth to your Dark Lord, and he had commended your forethought.  That’s the only thing of any mother fucking importance.  Not how he grew on you, how your pump biscuit sometimes fluttered and your pity organ twisted a little the way he smiled when you walked into the block with him.  That’s the past.  The only thing that matters is the now, and the future.

The only thing that matters is the wishes of the most wicked of carnival masters, the lord of the angels of double death, the most mirthful of all the mother fucking messiahs.

Your press your psychic fingers into his mind again, and this time he wakes up.  His own psychic energies flutter away from your touch, and you watch him turn, sitting up, to look at you.  His eyes, glowing slightly in the darkness, flicker:  red, blue, purple, pink.  It’s easy, when they’re sleeping.  It’s easy, when they trust you.

His eyes go wide, his jaw slack, and he whispers the words, “All hail...the one true...messiah.”

Easy.  So mother fucking easy.

But then, it was never going to be a challenge:  not when your most righteous of angel overlords has willed it so.  This was written, foretold; this was how it was always going to be.  You’re almost disappointed.

And then--his eyes flicker again:  purple, pink, red, blue.

“Messiah?  Is that it?” your pale brother asks you, and you draw back in surprise as the tendrils of your chucklevoodoos burn in your pan.  “You want a prophet for your cult?  Another mindless zombie?  Look, bro, I don’t know what you did to Meulin, but I’m not interested.”

He’s staring at you--no, he’s staring  _through_ you.  He knew, you realize.  He knew this entire time that something was amiss, that you weren’t telling the whole sacred truth.  He knew what your plans were, and that was why he had followed you this far.  This self sacrificial idiot had taken the position as your moirail to keep an eye on _you_.

That is what makes him worthy, though.

You had held him through countless daymares, through his prophesies, his visions of (his own) doom, and you thought:  what greater purpose could the Heir of Doom serve than this?  Instead of protecting his friends from the doom he foretold, he would be the one bringing it for a greater purpose.  His role was to inherit the work of the mother fucking angels and to become an extension of the Prince; the Destroyer.  You.

“The cult’s gone,” he says.  “It’s just you now.  There’s nobody else, man.  Let it go.”

He’s got your hand.  He’s trying to placate you.  He still fucking  _trusts_ you.

You lift your hands and put them on his cheeks.  You thread your fingers in his hair, and he sighs, quiet.  You love this hunk of sacrilegious flesh, and that’s why he gets the honor getting owned by you.

You dig your tendrils into his pan, hard and fast, more skewers than probes.  You don’t touch, you  _destroy_.  You don’t suggest, you  _possess_ .  His eyes flash again, and this time, there’s no flickering.

He screams.

And still, through it all, your best mother fucking pale brother has the peace of mind to reach up to your throat stem and squeeze it shut.  You can feel his psionics burning your hands, burning your throat.  You do not give a single shit.  Your vooodoos will stave off the worst of  his psionics, and he knows it.

Maybe it’s unwise, but you do know your mirthless brother.  He trusts you, but you also trust him.  He won’t cut off the sweet oxygenation enough to do you damage.  He can’t; his role is to save his friends, so he thinks.  You’re one of them.

He’s holding out on you pretty good, though; his face is getting fuzzy and your control is wavering.  He won’t win.  It’s a mother fucking mental battle of the most wicked of proportions; a match of telepathic chess.  He won’t win.  It’s foretold.

And then, he drops his hands.

You’ve won.

You smile, still inhaling deeply, and you whisper into his mind:   _You belong to me_.

He says:  “I always have.”

And then, he smiles.  His eyes flicker again, and you see it there, in his fangs.  Just a trace at first, dim, mustardy yellow staining his lips, but it increases.  He’s bleeding.  Blood drips down his chin, down from his nose.

He says: “But you can’t have me.”

You realize what he is doing too mother fucking late.  He knows he can’t keep the prize from you, so instead, he’s going to break it before you can take it from him.  His skin is sparking, the veins in his throat stem are bulging, and the air is electric.  Panicked, you increase your assault, but there’s one place in his pan, one wall off section so guarded, it’ll take you hours to get in.

He’s laughing at you as he bleeds out.  He’s laughing as blood seeps out of his heretical mother fucking eyes, rolling down his cheeks like tears.  He’s laughing as he tears his own mind apart, for the sole purpose of keeping you from having it.

Even his auricular sponge clots are bleeding, sticky yellow coating your hands.  But you aren’t paying attention to that now, as he gives in and slumps against your shoulder.  Your boy’s got a face full of wicked body juice, a body full of mother fucking jello, and a pump biscuit filled with pity for the entire goddamn world.  You hate him as much as you love him, your broken puppet.  He’s yours now, you know, but he only let you after he made sure he wasn’t worth having.  You hold that broken boy in your arms and wonder at what you’ve just done.

All things said, though, you got to hand it to him.  Your pale brother is still your mother fucking miracle.  He did exactly what he said he was going to do, in the end.

A miracle doesn’t stop being miraculous just because it wasn’t the miracle you wanted, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bonus Round 1 for the Homestuck Shipping World Cup. Inspired by [this headcanon](http://tatterdemalionamberite.tumblr.com/post/37535229071/quick-homestuck-speculations-doom-aspect).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crash and Burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467952) by [paradajka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradajka/pseuds/paradajka)




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